


In the Wake of Washita

by emn1936



Category: Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emn1936/pseuds/emn1936
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after "Washita" but assumes a different path for Sully's recover than those shown in the episode of the same title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"Whatcha drinkin', Sully?" Brian slipped into the cabin through the back door, stepped closer to the table and took an experimental sniff of the air. "Willow bark tea?"

"It's late, Brian." Sully sighed and set his teacup onto the table. "You should go back to the barn. You outta be in bed."

"Awww... I can't sleep." The tow-headed boy pulled out a chair and perched on the edge of the seat. "Never can when Ma's away." He watched curiously as Sully took a careful sip of the hot liquid in his cup.

"What's the matter?" the boy asked worriedly. "You sick?"

"Bit of a headache, that's all," Sully replied softly.

"If Ma was here, she'd fix you right up, wouldn't she?"

Sully nodded in agreement. "You bet."

"When do you think Ma'll be home?"

"I don't know," he told the child. "A day, maybe two." Sully took another gulp of tea. The headaches had been brewing on and off for more than a week now - ever since the massacre. He didn't know if they were simply stress related or the onset of another megrim, though he feared it was the latter. He had been able to stave them off so far with the tea, but Brian's chattering made it difficult for him to take advantage of the tea's healing properties and the quiet he sought at the end of another long day.

"Why'd she have to go away now?" the boy asked querulously.

"I told ya," the man said in a tone that suggested he had repeated himself many times over in the last few days. "Cloud Dancin' needed to finish teachin' her 'bout the Cheyenne medicine."

"But-"

"Brian," Sully drained the rest of the tea from the cup and set it down on the table with a clatter. "This is something they both needed." He took a deep breath and strived for patience. "If Cloud Dancin' can teach your ma and she uses what she learns to help folks, then they're doing somethin' good, somethin' positive, and maybe that'll help them to stop feelin' so sad."

"Well, I'm sad too!" Brian exclaimed. "No Harm was my friend and now he's... now he's..." The boy dashed the back of his hand across his eyes and cried out plaintively, "I hate it when Ma's away!"

"Brian..." Sully reached out and wrapped a gentle hand over the child's shoulder.

"No!" The boy shrugged away from the comforting touch. "What if the soldiers come looking for Cloud Dancin' and Ma gets hurt, or... or...?" he asked accusingly and burst into tears. And with that, Sully understood the real reason for Brian's behavior.

He heard the rustling of fabric and turned his head to see Colleen peering out from the behind the curtain that separated her bed from the rest of the small cabin. She took a step toward her little brother, but Sully waved her off with one hand.

"Brian," he pulled the child from the edge of the chair on which he was perched and drawing him closer, wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders. "I know you're scared," He cupped his hand around the back of the child's head and stroked gentle fingers over the bright, blonde hair. "But I promise you that your ma is gonna be fine. I wouldn't have left her alone if I didn't think so."

Brian gulped back tears and nestled closer to the man he loved like a father. "Seems like we've been sad forever... like we ain't never gonna be happy again." His blue eyes were filled with a world-weariness that no child should know. He yawned mightily, dropped his head onto Sully's shoulder and allowed himself to be scooped up into his strong arms.

"I'm tired of bein' sad all the time, Sully. Ain't you?"

Sully tucked the boy into his mother's empty bed and drew the quilt securely around his shoulders. A snap of his fingers had Wolf leaping onto the bed and curling protectively close to the drowsy child. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the tips of his fingers over Brian's cheek.

"Yeah, Brian," he whispered as the boy slipped into a fitful sleep. Using the heel of one hand, he angrily brushed away a tear. "I'm tired of bein' sad all the time, too."


	2. Chapter 1

By week's end, Michaela had come home and on the night of her return, the family gathered to bid farewell to Cloud Dancing and the infant who was the sole survivor found along the banks of the Washita. As much as Sully wished differently, there was little time for him to speak privately or at any length with his old friend.

"It was good that I spent these days with Dr. Mike," whispered Cloud Dancing as he pulled his younger brother into his embrace. "I do not know if I will ever understand why the Spirits have allowed my people to be taken from me, but in the last few days I have found some peace."

"I'm glad." Sully pulled away and offered his friend a wobbly smile. "Michaela seems more easy now, too," he murmured. "Thank you."

Long after Robert E had helped his grieving wife into their wagon and turned back for home, Sully stood frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the rise of a distant hill over which Cloud Dancing and Live in Hopes had disappeared from his view.

"Sully? Sully!" He glanced down as Michaela's raised voice penetrated the faint drumbeat of pain building behind his eyes.

"I'm sorry... what?" He shook his head to clear it and met her expectant gaze.

"I asked if you would take the children home and make sure that Brian and Colleen get to bed. It's so late and they have school in the morning."

He frowned and glanced again toward the mist-shrouded hilltop. "I... uh... Aren't you going home?"

She shook her head. "No. I need to see Dorothy."

"Dorothy?" Sully lifted his gaze to the sky and noted the position of the moon and the stars. "It's gotta be after two in the morning, Michaela!"

"Sully, please. This is something I have to do."

"I don't understand. Why can't this wait until morning? What's the big rush?"

"I don't know how to explain it to you, but I..." She struggled to find the right words. "The time I spent with Cloud Dancing was what I needed to help me find the right direction and I just... I just... I need to speak with Dorothy to reach the end of this path." She sighed, frustrated by her inability to put her need into clear words. "Oh... I don't... it's so late and I don't know how to make you understand."

"You're right, Michaela. I don't understand why you need to do this right this minute! You've been away for days now and-"

"Please, Sully." She laid a hand on his arm and gazed into his eyes beseechingly. "Please, just understand that this is something I need to do. For me as well as for Cloud Dancing and his people."

He glanced away from her and turned towards the woods. He longed to disappear into the trees to find some measure of peace and quiet where he could sort out his own thoughts. He needed some time... but time was exactly what Michaela was asking for herself and remembering the state she had been in only days earlier, he couldn't find it in himself to deny her.

"Please," she whispered. "I know it sounds crazy, but I do have my reasons."

He acquiesced with a sigh. "What about the Reverend?" he asked.

"He can ride your horse back to town and then you can get him from the livery when you bring the children to school in the morning." She turned toward the man waiting with her children near the wagon.

"Reverend, would that work for you?"

"Well... I've never ridden bareback before but I suppose as long as we don't race into town I'll be okay."

"There!" Michaela said briskly. "It's all settled." She walked over to the children and pulled each of them into a quick embrace. "I love you all very much," she told them.

"Ain't you comin' home, ma?" Brian asked.

"No, I have to go back to town, but I'll see you at Grace's for breakfast before you go to school." She helped him climb into the wagon and waited while his siblings followed. She turned to watch Sully help the reverend awkwardly mount the horse without aid of stirrups or saddle horn.

Sully whispered something into the horse's ear and the horse bobbed his head as if in agreement. He handed the reins to the nervous looking minister. "You just follow Dr. Mike and Flash. He'll take care of the rest." The reverend bobbed his head in much the same manner as the horse had and tightened his grip on the reins.

Michaela mounted Flash and walked her over to wagon where Sully had settled onto the seat beside Matthew. She held out a hand to her fiancé.

"Thank you." She squeezed her fingers around his knuckles. "I'll see you in the morning."

Matthew clucked his tongue at the horses and turned the wagon toward home while Sully leaned an elbow on his upraised knee and surreptitiously rubbed his fingers over his aching forehead as Brian peppered him with questions about Cloud Dancing and the baby and the band of Northern Cheyenne the two were seeking.


	3. Chapter 1

Sully stepped out of the mercantile and into the busy street. He slid the box of newly purchased supplies into the back of the wagon and started across the street to Robert E's to pick up the hinges and door latches the blacksmith had fashioned for the new homestead. He had ordered hardware for all of the interior doors from Loren, but wanted something fancier for the front door - something to compliment the beveled, decorative window.

"Sully!"

He pivoted at the sound of Michaela's voice and changed direction to head toward the clinic where she was waiting. As he moved toward her, he studied her face, pleased to note that her cheeks bore a healthy flush and to see a tiny smile curving her lips. She hadn't told him much about the time she had spent with Cloud Dancing, but he was very glad to see that she had come back renewed and on the path to recovery.

As he neared the clinic, Michaela stepped to the edge of the boardwalk that ran along the side of the building and pulled him into a quick embrace.

"Look!" she exclaimed and held out a piece of paper.

"Yeah... it's the Gazette. Comes out every Thursday..." He wasn't sure what all the excitement was about.

Michaela huffed out an exasperated breath. "Yes, but this edition is special." She stabbed a finger toward a column on the front side of the small paper.

Sully leaned forward to read the article she had indicated. "Another Point of View." He began to quietly read aloud. "It's said that every story has two sides. Most people have already heard the army's version of who the Cheyenne people were and what happened between them and General Custer's troops along the banks of the Washita. What follows strives to be a faithful accounting of an opposing point of view..." His voiced trailed off and he looked up.

"What is this?"

"I know you've been wondering what I've been doing at Dorothy's every evening for the last few nights." Michaela glanced down at the paper and then back up at him. "Well, this article of Dorothy's... this is what I've been doing."

"You've been writing an article for the Gazette?"

"Yes. No. Well, not exactly. You see, Dorothy came to the clinic one night... the night I left the homestead and told you that I had to come to the clinic to catch up on some work. Remember?"

He nodded, recalling her lack of appetite... her crushed spirit... and waited for her to continue.

"She knew something was wrong and tried to get me to open up to her. To talk about what I had seen at the river. She told me that a lot of people were reading stories from the army's perspective - that folks were coming to believe that the army was justified in what it had done."

She sighed. "I couldn't talk about it - not then. I wasn't ready and I sent her away. Later, I told Cloud Dancing that all I wanted was to forget, but he said that his people needed me to remember. He said 'if the truth is not lost, perhaps something will be learned'. That's what this is. My truth. The Cheyenne's truth."

Sully noted that the spark that had always lit her eyes - and which had seemed to be extinguished in the immediate aftermath of the massacre - had returned as she continued to speak.

"Dorothy's sent copies to the big newspapers in San Francisco, Denver, Chicago - and as far east as Philadelphia and New York." A triumphant smile lit her face and there was a lilt in her voice as she spoke. "Now people in all of those cities will know who the Cheyenne were in life. They'll know that Black Kettle longed for peace and that Snow Bird was like any other wife - white, Negro or Indian - a woman who wanted a good life, a happy and safe life, for her family. They'll know that No Harm was a bright and cheerful boy who didn't look at our son and see a white boy - an enemy - but who looked at him and saw a friend."

Her tone grew grim. "And they'll also know how their lives ended. How I found Black Kettle shot in the back, still clutching the American flag given to him under a treaty the army broke time and again. How No Harm had the presence of mind to hide the baby before he died and how Snow Bird clung to life long enough to tell us the truth of what happened and to say goodbye to her husband."

She was staring down at the paper in her hands and missed each pained wince that crossed Sully's face as she ground out the litany of death. "People will read this story, Sully, and though many will dismiss it out of hand, some will know it for the truth that it is and they'll pass that viewpoint on to their families and those people will pass it on to their friends and maybe, eventually, Snow Bird's prediction that some day our people and theirs will no longer live in fear of each other will come true."

Sully slowly drew the paper from her hands. "Can I take this copy?" he asked. "I'd like to read it later."

"Of course," she smiled gently and laid a hand on his arm. "I know you've been worried about me and I haven't been around much lately for you to see this, but I AM better. I can't thank you enough for arranging for me to see Cloud Dancing and for taking care of the children while I've been gone. The time I spent with Cloud Dancing, knowing that he was trusting me with his medicine, that he didn't blame me for what happened..." She blew out a trembling breath. "And the opportunity to tell their story to Dorothy... the thought that it could help to change even one person's mind about the Indians and their plight... oh, Sully! It's done me a world of good." She stretched onto her toes and pressed a hard kiss against his lips. "Thank you."

He nodded jerkily and ducked his head and was saved from having to stammer out a reply when a patient showed up for her appointment.

"Go right in, Mrs. Mason," Michaela smiled at the elderly woman who had stopped near the bench and politely waited for a break in their conversation. "I'll be right in."

"I better let you go," Sully creased the Gazette in half and then in quarters. "I've gotta get back to work out at the new house."

"I've missed you," she admitted. "You'll come for dinner tonight, won't you?"

"Sure." He stepped down into the street. "See ya tonight." He watched her disappear into the clinic then turned back toward Robert E's. Tucking the folded paper into his pocket, it was a bitter pill to swallow knowing that Michaela and Dorothy had likely done more to help the Cheyenne with this one article than he had ever accomplished in all the years he had spent trying... and failing


	4. Chapter 3

The nightmares started after that. Although his sleep had been fitful ever since the massacre and he woke up each morning feeling as though he had gotten no rest at all, he had been grateful that he wasn't plagued with nightmares about what he had seen along the river. Somehow, seeing the story in print, reading the words Michaela used to describe it to Dorothy brought the slaughter to life in horrifying detail and color. He was haunted now, not only by his own gruesome memories, but by Michaela's as well. And though the headaches never bloomed into the excruciating pain he remembered from the prior year, they were always present; always tap, tap, tapping away behind his eyes.

He had taken to avoiding his family as much as possible, hiding from them by throwing himself into working on the new homestead. When Michaela or the children questioned why he was so rarely around, he told them that he had lost so much time after the massacre that he had to spend just about every waking moment working on the house if he wanted to get it done in time. Michaela, feeling a little guilty at having kept him from his work to look after the children so that she could spend time with Cloud Dancing and Dorothy, and finding herself wrapped up in the details of the fast-approaching wedding, didn't argue with him.

He worked from sunrise to sunset on the house, installing windows, sanding the floors, hanging the doors, and then by lamplight each evening he labored to finish not only Michaela's wedding gift, but also new beds and bureaus for Brian and Colleen's rooms. He ate on the rare occasions when he remembered and dozed restlessly on the wooden floor of the homestead only when exhaustion claimed him.

And always, always, with each waking minute of every day and each haunted moment of every night, he quietly grieved, not only for the brutal loss of his Cheyenne family, but also for the loss of his brother, now living so far away. In the immediate days after Washita, he had dedicated himself to doing what he could to ease Michaela's pain, listen to Brian's fears, answer Matthew's questions and comfort Colleen, immersing himself in caring for them so that he wouldn't have to acknowledge his own pain and fears or struggle with his own questions for which he could find no answers. Now, in the quiet solitude of his days and nights, there was no respite from his demons.

One morning, about a month before the wedding, he awoke to overcast skies. He stepped out onto the porch and glared at the offending clouds. His plan had been to install the shutters on the second floor windows. He stepped down from the porch and into the lightly misting rain and judged that he might have time to get some of the shutters up before the swollen clouds let loose with their heavy rains.

He managed to get the shutters hung over two of the windows and was carefully moving across the roof to hoist up the next set of shutters when his boot slid on the wet shingles. He frantically reached out to stop his fall and as his body tumbled into space, he grabbed onto the edge of the roof with his right hand. A searing pain tore through his shoulder as it bore the full and sudden burden of his weight. He tried to swing his other arm up to grab hold of the edge of roof without success. Panting harshly, he chanced a glance downward. He knew the roof slanted down so that the drop would be about eighteen feet. Lightning bolts of fire burned through his arm and stabbed into his shoulder and knowing that he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer, he made his decision. Curling his body into as small a circle as he could in the hopes of controlling his landing and minimizing the damage, he plunged to the ground.

He landed painfully on his side and the air was knocked out of his diaphragm with explosive force. He flailed on the ground for long moments, mouth open, desperate to draw oxygen into his lungs, but unable to do so until finally, finally! the spasm stopped and he was able to greedily suck in a lungful of air.

Panting, he rolled onto his back. He closed his eyes and listened to Wolf's frantic barking as he rested his head on the muddy ground and tried to assess his injuries. 'At least I didn't hit my head. Michaela will be real happy,' he thought with a pained grimace. He cautiously straightened his legs and groaned softly as pain shot through one knee. It seemed that every inch of his body was a jumble of aches and pains - so much so that he couldn't separate one from the other.

"There's nothing for it but to get to Michaela," he told himself. Knowing that it was unlikely that help would come riding along, he spent a few moments gathering his strength before painfully sitting upright.

"Ahh!" he groaned and clapped a hand over his mouth as his stomach roiled. Wolf whined and butted his nose against Sully's chest.

"It's okay, Wolf," he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat and smoothed his hand over the animal's bristly fur. "I'm okay, but I gotta get to Michaela." Wolf barked at the familiar sounding name. "Yeah, that's right. We're gonna go see Michaela." He placed two fingers into his mouth and let out a short, piercing whistle. Immediately, he heard the answering whicker from his horse as it trotted over.

"Good boy," he praised. He reached up with his good arm and wrapped the trailing reins around his hand. Sucking in a deep, bracing breath, he hauled himself to his feet. He swayed unsteadily as waves of pain rolled over him and black spots danced before his eyes and he grabbed a fistful of the horse's mane to steady himself. He felt Wolf pressing along his leg as though he too would help to keep Sully on his feet.

Unable to imagine swinging himself onto the horse's bare back, Sully led his mount over to the porch steps and after two failed attempts, boosted himself up from there. The horse shifted uneasily as his rider tiredly slumped forward against his neck, but calmed at the familiar voice whispering in his ear.

"Okay, boy. Okay. Let's get to town." Sully forced himself up, lifted the reins and nudged the horse along the well-trod path. For the first time, Sully regretted the distance between the homestead and Colorado Springs as he kept the horse to a slow pace that wouldn't jar his injuries too badly. The ride seemed to take hours and by the time he reached town, he was struggling to stay alert and on the horse's back.

Michaela, who had been visiting with Dorothy outside of the mercantile, looked up at the familiar sound of Wolf's barking.

"Sully!" she gasped as she saw him slumping over the horse's neck. She dashed into the street, heedless of the horses and wagons that milled about her and raced to his side.

"Sully!" she cried again as she reached his side. "My God, what happened?"

Sully struggled to lift one leg over the horse's wide back in order to dismount and as Dorothy arrived a few paces behind Michaela, the two reached out to catch him as he slid to the ground.

"Help me get him inside," Michaela gasped. The two women wrapped their arms around him and helped him limp into the clinic. Already a crowd was gathering outside the open door.

"Dr. Mike? What happened?" Robert E pushed his way through the growing crowd and into the clinic.

"I don't know," she said frantically. "Please. Help us get him onto the examining table." Robert E wrapped strong arms around his friend and gently deposited him onto the table.

"What else?" he asked as he straightened.

"I... I..." Michaela lifted trembling fingers to her mouth as she stared down at Sully's bruised and bloody form.

"Dr. Mike!" The blacksmith prodded her into action.

"Water. Please, Robert E. I need fresh water." He snatched up a bucket and hurried outside to the pump.

"Dorothy, there are some clean cloths in that cabinet over there," Michaela instructed. "I'll need them all."

Robert E rushed back inside with a bucket of clean water. "Should I get Colleen, Dr. Mike?"

Michaela glanced at the clock. "No, she's in school. I'll... if I need her, I'll send for her."

"Is there anything I can do?" the blacksmith asked.

"Uh..." Michaela looked up from taking Sully's pulse. "No, thank you, Robert E. Perhaps though, you could stay nearby?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Mike. I'll be waiting right outside." He stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.

"Sully?" Michaela softly called his name and he lifted heavy eyelids to peer at her. "What happened?"

"Stupid mistake," he whispered. "Slipped off the roof."

"What were you doing on the roof in this rain!" she cried out shrilly.

"Stupid," he repeated.

Michaela looked up at her friend. "Dorothy, could you stoke up the fire in the stove and put some of that water on to heat?"

"Of course, Michaela. Whatever you need." The older woman lifted the lids on the small stove, dropped in a few small sticks of wood and blew on the embers until the kindling caught. "This kettle already has warm water in it," she called out as she adjusted the dampers. "Shall I bring it over?"

"There's a basin beneath that table," Michaela pointed. "Fill it and bring it here." As she spoke she fitted her stethoscope into her ears and listened to Sully's heartbeat and was reassured to find it steady, though rapid. She reached out for an oil lamp and brought it close to his face, prying open one of his eyes to peer closely at his pupils.

"I didn't hit my head," Sully tried to squirm away from her. "And I didn't black out."

"Hold still and let me examine you," she reprimanded. Satisfied that his pupils were dilating normally and he likely had not suffered a concussion, she set the lamp back down.

"How far did you fall?" She flicked open the row of buttons down the front of his shirt and pulled the tails from the waist of his buckskins

"About eighteen feet," he mumbled tiredly. He hissed out a breath as she jostled him.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "Where do you hurt?"

He huffed out a short laugh. "Easier to tell ya where I don't hurt."

"Sully..."

He tried to concentrate and take inventory of his injuries, but exhaustion and pain were quickly sapping what was left of his strength.

"Mostly my right side," he breathed. "Right shoulder and arm... ribs... knee." His voice trailed off as the sweet relief of unconsciousness beckoned.

Dorothy set the basin of warm water down near the examining table. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she got her first good look at him. "Is he going to be alright?"

Michaela checked his breathing and listened to his heart again. "I believe so. He's passed out."

The older woman took in the bruises she could see on his face and exposed skin. She blanched as she considered the possible damage hidden beneath his clothes.

"Maybe it's best that he's not awake," she ventured.

"Maybe," her friend agreed grimly. "We need to clean off the blood and mud as best we can," she said. "Will you help me get him out of his clothes?"

Dorothy nodded and began to ease the shirt from his arms and shoulders while Michaela struggled to work the damp buckskins down his legs.

Dorothy soaked a cloth in the warm water, and then gently began to wash the blood and mud away from his hands and arms.

"Michaela," she called out. The doctor draped a sheet modestly over Sully's midsection then looked up.

 

"What is it?" she asked.

"That's what I want to know." She peered closely at Sully's forearm. "Look at this."

Michaela took his arm gently into her hands and looked where Dorothy directed. "Oh!" she gasped and pressed a fist against her mouth.

"What are they?" Dorothy pressed. "This isn't from the fall. Some of these marks are scabbed over already."

Michaela ran trembling fingers over his forearms. "It's some kind of Cheyenne mourning ritual," she whispered as tears ran down her face.

"You mean... he did this to himself?" Dorothy was shocked at the idea.

Michaela nodded. "I don't understand the meaning behind it, but I saw Cloud Dancing do the same thing after Snow Bird passed." She cradled his arm against her breast. "Oh, Dorothy," she cried as tears fell unheeded onto the bodice of her dress. "He's been grieving alone all this time... do you see?"

Dorothy shook her head, unsure of what her friend was trying to tell her.

"You're right, these cuts have scabbed over and begun to heal. He probably made them right after the massacre. But these..." she pointed to two shallow, red and raw cuts on each arm. "These are more recent - maybe a day or two old."

"I don't understand why that's important..."

Michaela shook her head. "I think it means that he's still grieving as hard today as he was right after Washita. I'm afraid that it means that while the rest of us have been improving, he's still in the same place."

"And you had no idea?"

"Oh... of course, I knew that he was grieving, but he's seemed so strong. There were times when I was sure that I could feel myself actually falling to pieces and I marveled at his strength, wondering how he could be so composed and all this time... all this time he was just being..."

She lifted teary eyes to her friend's face. "Why wouldn't he say something?"

Dorothy smiled sadly. "Because he's... because that's Sully."

Michaela gently laid his arm back down on the table. "Yes, I suppose you're right," she said glumly. "I just thought that he was getting better at opening up to me." Her fingers hovered over the telling marks on his arms. "He didn't say anything and the truth is... I haven't asked him either."

Dorothy reached over Sully and wrapped a strong hand around her friend's arm. "You can be the woman who loves him and talk to him about it after he wakes up. Right now you need to be his doctor."

Michaela nodded and straightened her back. "You're right." She reached for a tin of ointment and began to liberally spread it over the raw wounds on Sully's arm. "One thing at a time."


	5. Chapter 4

Sully awoke slowly and blearily blinked his eyes in an effort to bring his surroundings into focus. He immediately recognized the room as being one of the clinic's recovery rooms. He tried to push himself into a sitting position and gasped as a sharp pain lanced through his right shoulder.

"Let me help you."

He collapsed against the pillows and looked up to find Michaela standing in the doorway.

"Thanks." He forced a smile for her benefit.

Michaela crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his torso. "Use your left hand to push yourself up," she instructed and on the count of three they managed to lever him into a more upright position. She plumped the pillows behind him and straightened the blanket over his legs.

"Better?" she asked.

He closed his eyes and struggled for control over the pain singing through every muscle in his body. He blew out several short breaths and forced himself to relax into the pillows until gradually the pain eased.

"Yeah, better."

Michaela reached for the pitcher sitting on the table by the bed and poured a small amount of water into a glass.

"Here." She pressed the glass into his left hand. "Drink slowly," she cautioned.

His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his mouth and she used her fingertips to wipe up the droplets of water that splattered onto his chest before taking the empty glass back.

"How do you feel?" she asked as she perched on the edge of the bed.

"Like I fell from a roof," he said wryly.

She let out a sharp laugh and he saw that amusement and worry vied for dominance of her expression.

"Well?" he asked, waving a hand over his battered body. "How bad is it?"

"Considering that you fell approximately eighteen feet," she murmured, "you were incredibly lucky. It's a miracle you didn't break your neck."

He nodded. "Yeah, but you still haven't told me..." He touched his fingers to the bandages binding his right arm to his chest.

"It's dislocated," she told him. "I don't expect there to be any permanent damage to the ligaments or muscles, but you need to keep it immobile for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks!" he jerked forward and gasped as pain again exploded through his body.

"Lean back," she ordered and with a gentle hand pushed him back into the pillows.

"I can't be tied up like this for two weeks," he complained. "I'll never get the homestead done in time for the wedding."

"In a couple of days I'll remove the heavy binding and you'll be able to get by with a sling," she told him. "With another patient, I might have started with a sling, but knowing you as I do... well, let's just say that I don't trust you not to try to do too much, too soon." She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

"As for the homestead, you're right. You won't be able to work on it for a little while, but it's got a strong roof, the doors are on and windows are in. The fireplaces work and the furniture will be delivered in time. It might not be one hundred percent, but we'll be able to move in," she soothed.

"I want it to be perfect for ya," he grumbled.

"I'll be perfectly happy so long as you're healthy," she chided.

He gave a quick and petulant jerk of his chin and plucked at a loose thread in the blanket covering him. "What else?"

"You have a sprained knee." She lightly touched his leg. "I suspect that you have a possible hairline fracture of at least one if not two ribs." She shrugged. "The rest of it is bruising, cuts, various contusions..."

"Just bruises?" he asked, surprised.

"Not like any bruise you've ever felt before," she warned. "These are very deep – to the muscle. And very painful."

Already well acquainted with just how painful his injuries were, he nodded.

"Sully." Her tone commanded that he look at her. She loved him deeply, but knowing full well that he was never the best of patients, thought it necessary to lay down the law.

"You need to let your body heal," she warned in a gentle but firm voice. "You need to eat the right foods, get a lot of sleep and take pain medication when I tell you."

He automatically shook his head. "I don't have much of an appetite right now, but I'll do my best to eat and try to sleep, but I ain't taking no pain medication," he said stubbornly. "I don't like it."

She had expected just this argument. Very aware that when it came to dealing with Sully a little well-placed guilt could go a long way toward achieving her goal of his full and speedy recovery, she didn't waste any time bringing out the heavy ammunition. "If you want to be healed in time for our wedding, you'll do as I say."

"I don't like the medicine, Michaela," he repeated. "I don't like the way my head feels when I'm taking it. It makes my brain feel fuzzy and I'm not in control..."

"I understand why you don't like it, and I promise that I won't force you to take it unless I feel it's very necessary. But Sully, your body needs to rest in order to heal and it can't rest if you're in excruciating pain."

He lifted her hand and played with her fingers. "Okay. But ya have to trust me when I say that I can handle the pain without medicine."

She pursed her lips and considered his words. "We'll see."

She smiled when he dropped his chin onto his chest in exasperated defeat. Wanting to lighten the mood a bit, she trailed the fingers of her free hand over his nose and lips and leaned close. "If you want to be fit enough to dance with me at our wedding, you'll listen to your doctor," she whispered seductively.

Understanding the intent behind her demeanor, he decided to meet her halfway. He tipped his face up so that his mouth was a mere breath away from hers. "Guess I'm more worried 'bout being fit enough for the honeymoon," he drawled and fought back a smile as a flush instantly spread over her cheeks.

Refusing to give him the upper hand, Michaela sat back and primly smoothed her hands over her skirts. "Oh my." She let her eyes grow wide. "That IS a concern," she intoned in a mock-serious voice. "Perhaps if I were to operate..."

A startled laugh escaped him. He loved it when she was saucy and flirtatious. "Or maybe you could just use the 'kiss it better' method?" he asked hopefully.

"Maybe." Her expression softened and she leaned forward again to press her lips against an abrasion that marred the skin over his right cheek. "One down, twenty or thirty more to go..." She smiled again and smoothed her fingers along his jaw.

"The children have been waiting downstairs since the end of the school day," she told him. "I thought if you felt up to it, we could all have supper here in your room tonight."

"Shouldn't they be heading home?" He looked toward the window and noted that it was almost dusk.

She shook her head. "I'll be staying here with you for the next few nights," she told him. "And I don't like the idea of them being out at the homestead alone all that time so I had Matthew go out to pack up enough clothes and other necessities to last us a few days."

"It ain't necessary for all of you to stay here," he protested. "I'll be fine overnight."

"As if I'd leave you here alone." She chuffed out an incredulous laugh.

"I've been alone most of my life," he reminded her.

She noted that his tone was free of self-pity. Just a simple statement of the facts, she thought a little sadly.

"But you're not alone anymore, are you?" She brushed her lips across his and gave him a pointed look.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment of her words. "No, you're right. I'm not."

Pleased, she kissed him again and then stood. "I'll send the children up while I go over to Grace's to arrange for supper."

"Michaela?" His mood grew pensive and he reached out and caught her hand in his own before she could walk away. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be. It was an accident." She twined a lock of his hair around her finger. "I'll be back soon. Don't let the children wear you out."

"I love you, Michaela," he told her softly.

"And I love you," she whispered back.


	6. Chapter 5

Sully stumbled across the killing fields on shaking legs. All around him the tall grasses were stained with blood. He was distantly aware of the cheerful burbling of the river as it danced over the rocks. How was it, he wondered, that the birds could continue to sing and the sun continue to shine warmly overhead when everywhere he looked he saw death and horror and the end of all the things that were right and good in his world? Where were the dark clouds and the rain? Weren't the spirits crying like he? Where were the rumblings of thunder and cracks of lightning? Wasn't God angry at this wanton destruction?

He came across the tiny, crumpled figure of a small child and recognized her as one who had always smiled shyly at him on his visits to the village. Tears brimmed over his lashes as he remembered grinning and waggling his fingers hello in response to her smiles and the happy giggle she would stifle in her mother's skirts. And though he knew she was beyond feeling any pain, he gently eased her into a more comfortable position closer to her slain mother. Lowering his head to his chest, he fought back the urge to scream.

He pushed himself to his feet, determined to find a survivor, or if there was no one, to bear witness to where each of them had fallen and forever imprint the memory in his mind.

Looking up, his heart leapt with surprise and joy. Standing less than ten yards away was Snow Bird, whole and healthy. Her head turned from one side to the other as she took in the carnage surrounding them and the eyes she lifted to his were laden with sorrow and, he thought, blame.

He approached her but she shook her head and took a step back. She turned to look toward a small hill and then again made eye contact with him as she pointed toward the grassy incline.

 

"What?" he asked. "What's over there?"

She firmed her lips and again commandingly stabbed her finger toward the hill.

He held his hands up before him. "Okay," he soothed. "I'll go look."

He climbed the hill on leaden legs, sick with dread at the expectation of what he would find. As he crested the incline, his eyes swept across the field. There was Black Kettle, cradling the flag in his arms. And there close by was his wife, Medicine Woman. There and there and there... all faces he knew, many of whom he called friend, some of whom he loved.

And, there... He recoiled in horror and took two lurching steps back.

No. Nonononono, he chanted in his mind. But no matter how much he denied it, his eyes were fixated on the sight of the people he loved most, of his family crumpled in a heap in the grass, the bright copper tones of Michaela's and Colleen's hair and the brilliant blonde heads of Matthew and Brian gleaming in the sun.

And this time he could no longer hold back a scream.

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Sully lurched upright and cried out again as pain erupted throughout his body. He panted, wild with fear and struggled against his injuries to get to his feet.

"Sully!"

At the sound of her voice, his head snapped up and he saw her bathed in the soft glow of the lamp she held in her hand.

"Michaela!" Terrified and confused, he held out a pleading hand toward her. Was he dreaming before or was she a dream now?

She rushed to his side and as soon as she was within reach, he grabbed her and tried to drag her onto the bed. She fumbled with the lamp and hurriedly set it onto the bedside table before he could topple her onto the mattress and started a fire. She sat beside him and touched her hand to his brow; worried by the frantic way his gaze roved over her face.

"Sully..." Bewildered by his frenzied behavior, she didn't know what to do or say. He banded his good arm around her waist and buried his face against the soft cotton of the nightgown covering her breasts. He whispered something and she strained to make out his words.

"Alive, alive. She's alive." He rocked her back and forth as he chanted the words over and over again. "Where are the kids?" His voice was muffled but sharp with tension.

"We're right here."

As Matthew spoke, Sully turned his head toward the doorway to see the young man standing with his arms wrapped protectively around his younger siblings. His face was taut with worry and Colleen's eyes were damp with concern for the man who would soon legally be her father.

"What's the matter, Sully?" Brian asked. "Are you sick?"

Embarrassed now, Sully straightened his back and pushed his hand through his hair. "Nightmare," he said in a quavering voice. He ducked his head and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I woke all of you."

His gaze greedily took in the fact that they were, indeed, hale and hearty. He stared at each of them for so long, the children grew unsettled under his intense study.

"I get nightmares sometimes, too." Brian timidly approached the bed. "When I do, Ma tells me that I should think about something nice. Usually I think about buying candy at Mr. Bray's or riding Taffy." He cocked his head to the side. "You should try it, Sully. It really works!"

Sully summoned a weak smile for the boy. "I'll do just that, Brian," he said. "Its real good advice, thanks."

"You're welcome." He turned away from the bed but then stopped and looked back. "If you want, I can sit up with you till you fall asleep," he offered. "Ma does that for me, too."

Sully's smile came a little more easily this time. "I appreciate the offer, Brian, but it's probably best that you go back to bed." He looked at Matthew and Colleen and then down into Michaela's concerned face. "All of you, please, go back to bed. I'm sorry I woke you up, but I'll be fine now."

Michaela gestured for the children to return to their rooms and waited until Matthew guided them out, then turned her full attention on her fiancé. Despite his words, she could still feel the fine trembling of his body as she pulled him back into her embrace.

"You're soaked," she exclaimed softly. A fine film of perspiration coated his skin and dampened his hair and she noted that the sheets were soaked as well.

"Lie down." She eased him onto the pillows. "I'll be right back," she promised as she felt his fingers convulse around the fabric of her nightgown. "Just a second." She dropped a kiss onto his lips and slipped out of his grasp. She was aware that his eyes were anxiously locked on her as she moved across the room to retrieve clean towels and bed linens and when she dropped back down onto the mattress, he again knotted his fingers into her nightgown.

"It's okay," she soothed. "I'm not going anywhere." She poured water from a pitcher into a basin and dipped a small towel into it.

"This will probably feel cold," she warned as she smoothed the wet cloth across his overheated skin. He lay quietly against the pillows and reveled in her gentle touch as she washed the drying sweat from his body and towel dried his hair. She dragged a chair close to the bed and helped him to sit in it while she quickly removed the soiled linens and replaced them with clean. Once he had settled back onto the bed, she sank down to sit on the mattress near his hip.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" She laid her hand against his chest, at once caressing him and surreptitiously checking to see that his heart rate and breathing had slowed.

He shook his head and swallowed convulsively. "Not right now," he told her and fretfully rubbed his fingers over his forehead.

"Does your head ache?"

"A little."

"Did it just start after you woke up from the nightmare?" she asked.

He shrugged and looked away.

Her voice sharpened slightly. "Sully. Have you been having headaches for some time now?"

He shrugged again and she cocked one brow at him, patiently waiting for an answer.

"For the last couple of weeks," he finally admitted.

Since Washita, she thought grimly. "Is it like before? Like the megrim you had last year?"

"I don't think so," he said. "I don't feel dizzy or sick and the pain isn't anything like last time."

"Where is the pain? Can you describe it?

He sighed. "Uh... behind my eyes mostly. Sometimes, I feel a sharp pain right here." He touched his fingers to his temple.

"I don't think it's a megrim," she agreed. "Just a regular, tension headache. It's no wonder, what with everything that's been going on lately." She noted that he stiffened at her oblique reference to the massacre. She was going to have to make him talk about it, but not now, not when she could still feel him occasionally trembling from the aftermath of his nightmare. She reached for a bottle from the tray of medical supplies she had left on the table earlier in the day.

"What's that?"

"Something for the pain." She shook a small measure of powder into a glass and filled it with water.

"I told ya, I don't want any pain medication."

"It's only a headache powder," she told him. "Just strong enough to get rid of the headache." She held the glass out to him. "It won't make your brain feel fuzzy. I promise." She put one finger under the bottom of the glass and tipped it toward him.

He gulped the medicine down and grimaced at the slightly bitter aftertaste then handed the empty glass back to her.

She pulled the covers up over his chest and settled into the chair next to the bed. "I'll just sit here, shall I? Until you fall asleep."

Sully awkwardly slid across the mattress to make room for her.

She eyed the empty space. It wouldn't be the first time they had slept side-by-side. Her hesitation was in the concern that one of the children would come into the room to check on Sully and find them in bed together. What would they think, she wondered. And yet, she argued with herself, they were to be married in a month and there was nothing unseemly in offering the comfort of her presence to the man she loved.

"You're thinking so loud, you're keeping me awake," Sully mumbled. "Never mind."

His eyes opened as he felt her weight settle onto the bed. "Don't worry about it, Michaela. Honestly, I understand."

"Shh." She curled onto her side so that her head rested above his on the pillow. "Go to sleep."

He fidgeted into a comfortable position and buried his face in the fragrant column of her throat with a sigh. She tunneled her fingers under his hair and slowly, rhythmically massaged his neck until she felt him relax and slide into sleep.


	7. Chapter 6

Michaela awoke early the next morning. In the pale morning light she studied Sully's face, pleased to note that he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She slipped away and into the room she had been sleeping in before she had been awakened by Sully's shouts. She quickly washed and dressed for the day before waking the children.

Matthew ducked out to pick up breakfast from Grace's and over bowls of oatmeal flavored with cinnamon sugar, Michaela checked over Brian's homework.

"We can come back here at lunchtime and sit with Sully if you want," Colleen offered as she picked up her books.

"Thank you," her mother smiled. "But that won't be necessary. Perhaps you can keep him company after school." She glanced at the clock. "You'd better hurry now, or you'll be late." She handed Brian his slate and walked the two of them to the door. "I'll see you this afternoon," she called as they set off for the schoolhouse.

She closed the door and began stacking the empty bowls and spoons onto a tray. Matthew poured two cups of coffee from the pot brewing on the small stove and handed one to her.

"Thank you." She inhaled the fragrant aroma before taking her first sip. "Mmm."

Matthew leaned one hip against the wall and studied her over his own coffee. "So... how is Sully, really?" he asked.

She lowered herself into a chair and smiled at her oldest. "He's in a lot of pain right now but I expect a full recovery."

"His nightmare... it was about what happened at the Washita, wasn't it?"

"My guess is yes, at least in part, but I don't know for sure. He didn't want to discuss it and I didn't want to push him last night."

"It was about the massacre. I'm sure of it," he asserted.

 

"You're probably right, although I think there was more to it than that."

"Yeah, somehow we were involved." He grinned at her startled look. "Don't look so surprised," he said. "It was pretty obvious – the way he was holding you and the way he was staring at us. Like he was trying to memorize our faces."

"Or reassure himself that we were real," she murmured.

"Yeah."

"What makes you so sure that the rest of it was about the massacre?" she asked. "Your room is right across from his – did you hear him say anything during the dream?"

"No." He stared into his coffee cup. "But it only makes sense, doesn't it?"

"I think so, but I'd like to hear why you do."

"Well, look at how the killings affected you - and you've only known the Cheyenne for about three years now. It just seems to me that it would be just as hard or harder on Sully since they're been like family to him."

"Has he... has he said anything to you, Matthew?"

"About Washita?"

She nodded.

"No, not really. He tried to answer any questions that we had and talked to us about how Cloud Dancing wanted to see you before he went north, stuff like that, but other than that..." He lifted his shoulders helplessly. "He was just... Sully, you know? Quiet."

"Yes," she murmured. 'I know."

He drained the coffee from cup and set it onto the tray. "I've got to get going, Dr. Mike." He hefted the tray into his hands. "I'll take this back for you."

"Thank you, Matthew." She rose and walked with him to the door.

"If you need me for anything, I'll be out with the herd," he told her. "Just send someone and I'll come runnin'. Otherwise, I'll be back before supper."

She saw him out and then closed the door behind him. She checked the clock and noted that she had more than a hour before her first appointment. Her schedule was actually a light one so unless she had a lot of unexpected patients, she should be able to devote the better part of her day to Sully.

She climbed the stairs, peeked into his room and noted that he was still sleeping though he seemed to be moving around more now. She sat down alongside him and gently ran her knuckles over his cheek.

"Sully," she called softly. She toyed with the braid that peeked out from beneath the rest of his hair and called his name again. "It's time to wake up."

He opened his eyes for a second, then closed them and rolled his face away from hers. He frowned as she continued to call his name.

"I thought you wanted me to get a lot of sleep," he complained.

"I do." She suppressed a smile at his grumpy tone. "But I also want you to eat and give me time to examine you." She tapped her fingers against his chest. "Come on," she coaxed in a singsong voice. "You can sleep later while I'm seeing patients."

He groaned and arched his back against the pillows. "Bossy," he muttered sleepily.

"That's right." This time she didn't try to hide her smile. "I'm the boss so you better listen to me." She wrapped her arms around him and helped him to sit up then gave him a warm, wet cloth to wash his face before handing him a toothbrush.

"Better?" she asked as he spat into the basin she held under his chin. He wiped his mouth with the cooling cloth and nodded.

"Yeah, thanks."

She stroked her fingers through his tangled hair. "I always feel a little more human after I wash up," she agreed.

She pulled a tray of medical supplies closer and settled next to him on the mattress. "I'm going to take off the bandages so that I can see what's going on underneath," she told him she began to work at the knot holding the white binding together over his shoulder. When the knot slipped free, he sat quietly as she unrolled yard after yard of bandaging.

She stood and with gentle, well-trained hands, assessed the injured shoulder. She noted that the black and blue marks almost completely covered his shoulder blade and extended below his collarbone before disappearing into the hair on his chest.

"The bruising is spreading."

"That's normal, right?"

"Absolutely. It will soon be a rainbow of colors with some purple, green and yellow mixed into the black and blue."

"Can't wait."

Her lips quirked upward. "I'm going to wrap it again," she told him. "And in another day or two, we'll test your range of motion."

"Can't I just have the sling?" he asked. "I feel like I'm trapped with the way you had it bound."

"I'd rather rewrap it today," she told him. "I'm afraid in your sleep that you'll re-injure it." She stroked a comforting finger over the wounded area. "If everything looks good tomorrow, we'll switch to a sling, okay?" she promised.

"Okay." Since his shoulder was already beginning to throb without the support of the binding, he gave in without too much of a fight.

"As for your ribs, there's not much I can do. If there are fractures, as I suspect, they're so small that even wrapping them wouldn't be of much help. I just want you to be careful and favor that side."

She drew the covers away and unwrapped the bandage around his knee. "The swelling has gone down some," she noted. "Try to bend it." She watched his face to gauge the level of pain he experienced as he drew the knee up.

"Alright, stop there," she instructed when he grunted with pain. She slipped cool hands along the back of his knee and calf and guided the leg back down. "You need to keep this immobile and stay off it for at least another day. I'm going to rewrap this but tomorrow I want to start alternating between a using a hot water bottle and ice packs."

"Why both?"

"Heat will help to keep the joint flexible, but it can also cause the swelling to increase. The cold will keep the swelling down. Tomorrow or the day after, we'll start exercising your knee and shoulder."

He closed his eyes and relaxed back into the pillows as she ran her hands over the rest of his injuries. She carefully probed the bruises and spread ointments over the smaller cuts and abrasions he suffered in the fall, checking to be sure there was no infection and that they were beginning to heal properly.

She scooped up another dollop of ointment and slowly stroked it over the self-inflicted wounds on his forearm. "Will you tell me about this?" Her voice was as soft and gentle as her touch.

His eyes flew open and the muscles in his arm tightened beneath her hand. She looked up and saw that his jaw was rigid with tension.

"Please?"

"What do ya wanna know?" he asked stiffly.

"It's some kind of Cheyenne mourning ritual, isn't it?"

A quick nod of his head was his only response.

"Sully..."

"Yes," he ground out. "It's a mourning custom."

"I don't understand."

"What's not to understand?" he asked defensively. "It's tradition."

"Yes, but-"

"After your father died - ya put away your bright clothes, right? You and your family - you all dressed in black, put your hair up and your pretty jewelry away, didn't go to any parties or socials, right?"

"Yes."

He gave a bad-tempered shrug. "Same thing."

"It's hardly the same thing," she countered as she studied the raw and angry looking wounds.

"Sure it is," he argued. "It's a sacrifice of the way you usually look - a way of grievin' and showin' respect for the dead for everyone to see. You wore mourning clothes so that people would know that someone you loved was gone. If you didn't, folks would think you had no respect for him. When a warrior is killed, his wife will chop off her hair so that everyone will know of her loss." He touched a finger to his arm. "This is just another way to show that loss."

"Still... it seems strange, almost barbaric."

He struggled not to be offended. "I heard once that women back east and in Europe have taken to wearin' jewelry made from the hair of a dead loved one. Maybe the Cheyenne would find that strange," he countered.

Mourning brooches. They had become quite popular a number of years earlier. She had seen women in Boston wearing them at their throats and indeed, had found it strange and a little distasteful. She conceded his point.

She touched one of the marks on his arm that was well on its way to healing. "You made this one right after the massacre?"

He nodded mutely.

"But these are just a few days old." Her fingers hovered over the raw cuts on his arm. "Is it customary to perform this ritual more than once?"

He hesitated and then slowly shook his head.

"Then... why?"

His only answer was a moody jerk of his shoulders.

"Sully..."

"I don't know!" he cried.

"I think you do."

"If you know so much, then why don't you tell me?"

Michaela knew the value of patience. She employed it now and silently waited for him to speak. Long moments passed before her persistence was rewarded.

"I didn't know what else to do - but I had to do somethin'," he whispered.

She took his hand into hers and clutched it between her breasts. "I want so badly to understand," she told him. "Please help me."

He rolled his head against the pillow and stared toward the window. "I can't help them anymore," he said brokenly. "I never really could. But you did."

She shook her head in instant denial. 'How so?"

"You 'n Dorothy. You told their story. Like you said... even if only a handful of people read it and believe... it's still a start. And people do listen to you."

He swallowed hard and continued. "But I ain't like that. I don't have the words or the schoolin' or the background to make people listen to me. To make them see the Cheyenne the way I saw them. The only thing I could think to do for them now was to mark their passing. I can keep their traditions alive. So many of them are gone now. Too many for one small mark." He touched his fingers to the wounds on his arm. "It didn't seem like it was that much to do. Truth is, it's very little but I can at least show them that much respect."

Michaela leaned down to rest her cheek on his good shoulder. "I think that I left you alone for too long," she whispered. "Because at the time I couldn't get past what I saw as my own guilt over what happened at Washita," she admitted. "I wanted to forget and every time I saw you, saw the pain on your face, it just made me feel worse. I'm so sorry for leaving you alone," she cried. 

"But Sully," a note of pleading entered her voice and she lifted her head to stare into his eyes. "Do you see the repercussions of keeping everything bottled up inside? I believe the headaches, the lack of sleep caused by nightmares and loss of appetite contributed to your fall every bit as much as the rain did." 

She hoped her words were getting through to him. If their marriage was to be a successful one, they both needed to learn to open up to one another.

"I couldn't talk to you, Michaela." He smoothed a hand over her hair at the wounded look on her face. "You were so... broken. I wanted to help you, but I couldn't seem to find the words you needed to hear. You found your own healing - with Cloud Dancin' and then with Dorothy and I could see that you had found some peace. I didn't want to take that away from you."

Tears slipped over her cheeks and, childlike, she used the back of her hand to brush them away. "I know how much you've lost," she whispered. "And I am so sorry that you felt that you had to keep your grief to yourself. I want to help you heal - body and spirit."

She looked down at her engagement ring. "I think that if we're going to make this marriage work we need to learn that our burdens are more easily borne if we share the load." She threaded the fingers of one hand into his sun-streaked hair and her gaze was steady as she lifted it to his face. "I would like to help you carry this burden. Will you talk to me... let me help you?"

She could see the muscles and tendons in his throat work as he struggled against his own tears. He turned his face and pressed his mouth against the pads of her fingers. His eyes were damp and one tear welled over his lashes and spilled down the cheek that he nestled into the palm of her hand as he blew out a trembling breath.

"I'll try."


	8. Chapter 7

Over the next two days they talked. Between seeing patients and taking care of the children, Michaela worked not only to help Sully regain his physical strength but also to begin to heal his emotional wounds. In sometimes halting words he told her stories she had never heard before of the time he had spent living in the Cheyenne village after Abagail's death.

There were moments when their conversations put her in mind of the time after her father's death. For days after the funeral, people had paid condolence calls at the house on Beacon Hill. It had been a time for remembrance - as family and friends gathered together to tell stories and pay tribute to Josef Quinn. There had been laughter and tears and she had come to know him through the memories of others until she saw him not only as the father who had spoiled her, loved her, encouraged her, but also as a colleague to his fellow doctors, a trusted confidante to his patients and a friend to his neighbors. She had also come to learn who he was to her sisters - in relationships so different from the one she had shared with him - and in some small ways, as a husband through the few stories her mother had felt comfortable sharing.

In a similar fashion, Michaela was coming to learn who the Cheyenne were through Sully's eyes and what they had truly meant to him. She had always thought she understood what he meant when he called the Cheyenne his family, but until now, she had never fully grasped the truth behind that statement. Through the stories he told her she came to understand that he had loved the people who had taken him into their lives in much the same way that she loved her family - with all of the joy, exasperation, squabbles, laughter and occasional misunderstandings that she shared with the family comprised of her own flesh and blood.

But for all that he did share with her, she knew that he was holding back. Though he spoke often of the Cheyenne as they were in life... he said nothing about the massacre. And though he didn't cry out again in the night, she knew that nightmares continued to plague his sleep.

On the third night of their stay at the clinic, after the children had fallen asleep, she decided to take matters into her own hands. When she heard the restless thrashing of his body against the sheets, she crept into his room.

"Michaela?" His surprise at finding her awake was evident in his voice.

"Shh." She stretched out on the bed beside him.

"What are you doing up?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Not sleepy, I guess." He brushed off her concern. "Probably just sleeping too much during the day."

Though moonlight streamed through the curtains bright enough to allow movement about the room unhindered, it did not illuminate his face enough to see his expression. But she didn't need to see his face clearly to know that he wasn't being honest.

"I don't think that's the reason." She waited a beat and when he didn't respond, continued. "I think that you're still having nightmares," she chided softly.

"Is that your medical opinion, Dr. Quinn?"

She had learned that Sully could display a belligerent and aggressive side when he felt cornered. It was unusual for him to direct that behavior toward her but, as she was undoubtedly backing him into a metaphorical wall, she was not surprised to hear the slightly snide tone of voice.

"As a matter-of-fact, yes. It is my medical opinion. You have dark circles under your eyes and little appetite. You also had difficulty concentrating earlier today when we were doing your exercises. And don't think that I haven't noticed that you were even having trouble sitting up straight or that I didn't see you nodding off and jerking awake half a dozen times today."

She cupped her hand over his cheek and felt a muscle twitching wildly in his rigid jaw.

"Let it go, Michaela," he warned.

"No. I told you before that your body needs rest in order to heal."

"I am resting!" he spat. "I've been lying here in this bed more than twenty hours of every one of the last three days, haven't I?"

"That's not rest. It's inactivity," she countered. "I think you're having nightmares and I think you're afraid to sleep because of them."

"I'm not talking about this," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Just leave it be."

"No."

"Michaela! I don't want to talk about it." He shrugged his shoulder as if to dislodge her but she merely turned onto her stomach and wriggled into a more comfortable position. She stacked her hands on his chest and propped her chin on them.

"You promised that you'd talk to me."

"I promised that I'd try," he countered.

"If you would just-"

"Look, Michaela, can't you understand? I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it!"

"I know, Sully. I know how you feel. Remember, I felt the same way myself just a couple of weeks ago. I didn't want to remember... didn't want to think about it." She paused to let him absorb that. "But you ARE thinking about it, aren't you?" she said knowingly. "You're thinking about it every minute that you aren't being distracted by me or the children. And even then, it's still there. Still in the back of your mind."

Brooding, he turned his head away and tried to ignore her.

"Just talk to me," she pleaded. "I love you, Sully. Please." She laid her head on his chest and waited.

She waited and listened to his heartbeat thundering beneath her ear. She waited and rode the jerky up and down movements of his breastbone as his ragged breaths stirred her hair. She waited and felt the tension coiling the muscles in his chest and arms. Patiently, patiently she waited.

And then finally her persistence was rewarded.

"She haunts me," he breathed.

"Who?"

"Snow Bird."

"In your dreams?"

He nodded and stared at the ceiling.

"Tell me," she implored.

And at last, he did. His voice faltered and broke as he described his dream. The blood-soaked grass. The innocent beauty of the child who would never giggle and smile at him again. The sound of the river and the warmth of the sun.

"And then suddenly, she was there. Snow Bird. She was standing there looking the same as always. Her hair was braided and her dress was neat and clean. She looked around at all her people, at their blood soaking the ground and then she looked at me. And I could see the blame in her eyes."

"No. Sully, she wouldn't blame you."

He continued on as if he hadn't heard her.

"And then... then she pointed to this hill a little ways off. She wanted me to climb it but I didn't want to. She kept pointing and I could tell she was getting mad so I went. I got to the top of the hill and that's when... that's when..." His breath caught and he abruptly stopped talking.

Michaela levered up from his chest and leaned over his face. Her hair spilled around them, wrapping them in a silken cocoon. "And then what?" she asked quietly.

He turned his face and buried it in the coppery curtain of her hair. His breath burst from him in choppy gasps and she felt his body trembling against hers.

"Sully," she urged. "Just say it. Get it out."

"I didn't... I didn't notice at first but then I saw... I saw you. All of you." He tangled his fingers in her hair. "You and the children. Lying in a heap in the grass. And I knew. I knew you were dead. And I knew Snow Bird was right to blame me. The Cheyenne were dead because I didn't do anything to stop the army. You and the children were dead because of me. Because you knew me. Because you loved me."

"No, Sully-"

"You wouldn't have been there - none of you would have been there if it wasn't for me."

"It was a dream, Sully. That's all. A terrible dream."

"The Cheyenne believe that dreams are often warnings of what's to come."

"And sometimes, they're just a manifestation of our worst fears," she countered. "Snow Bird would never blame you." She laid her mouth close to his ear. "Sully. She wouldn't have blamed you. She loved you. And she knew you loved them. She knew that you did everything you could to protect them."

He scrubbed his hand over his face and shook his head in silent, rapid denial.

"What happened along the Washita was horrible, unimaginable. But you are not to blame. You did everything you could, talked to anyone who would listen. Sully. The fault doesn't lie with you. It lies with Custer. It lies with Congress. It lies with the President. But not with you. Never, ever with you."

"It's so real," he whispered, caught in the images of his nightmare. "I can still see you... I can still see the blood-" he choked and fought down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

"It didn't happen." She peppered kisses over his face. "It's not going to happen. You aren't going to lose us as you did Abagail and Hannah." She took his hand and clasped it between her breasts. "I'm right here. Feel my heart beat. I'm right here." She pressed her mouth to his in a fervent kiss. "I'll never leave you alone," she whispered against his lips.

He let out an anguished moan and crushed her body against his. He wrapped his hand around her neck and seemingly oblivious to his injuries, rolled her onto her back. He fought his arm out of the sling he now wore and knotted his fingers in her hair. Using his body to pin her to the mattress, he lowered his head to take her mouth in a devastating kiss.

Michaela stiffened in momentary shock at his unexpected aggression. She pressed her hands ineffectually against his chest for a second and then with a surrendering sigh, slid her arms around his neck. His teeth nipped at her lower lip and drew a tiny moan from her before his tongue darted out to soothe the slight sting. When she gasped, he took advantage, shocking her again as he deepened the kiss into one more intimate than any they had ever shared before.

The tenor of his kiss changed, his mouth now demanding and insistent as though he was trying to mark her, stake his claim over her. Her stomach trembled with excitement and a frisson of anxiety and the feel of his body pressing hers into the bed covers was at once welcome and overwhelming.

She twisted away and sucked air into her starved lungs. "Sully-"

But his mouth blindly sought and claimed hers again. The flavor of his kisses changed from one moment to the next - first tinged with desperation, then seconds later domineering as he took what he wanted from her, what he needed from her, only to change again to a coaxing plucking of his lips on hers, keeping her off balance until she was mindlessly following his mouth, seeking it with her own.

He was stretched out full length over her and she instinctively moved to cradle his muscled hardness against her soft curves. His body pulsed against hers. He crushed her into the bedclothes and she had the impression that if he could crawl into her body, he would. And with that awareness, her body yielded to his as she made the decision to let him take what he needed and to give him what comfort she could.

Sully wrapped his fingers lightly around her throat and pressed his thumb under her chin to change the angle of their kiss. He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, pupils slightly dilated. Her cheeks were flushed and her breasts rose and fell beneath him with each gasping breath she took. As his mouth hovered over hers, he could feel her pulse thrumming wildly beneath his fingertips.

He was suddenly aware of the expressions vying for dominance on her face – shock and excitement, fear and desire, comfort and acceptance. He felt her body arch into his, her movements somehow at once both inexperienced and instinctively arousing. He knew then that she would yield to him, give him what he so badly wanted... and that to go any further would be taking advantage of her generous nature.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." The apology tripped off his tongue. Horrified at his aggressive behavior, he tried to fling himself from her but his injuries, combined with her clinging arms and legs, made it impossible for him to move easily.

"Michaela, please..."  
"It's alright, Sully. We don't have to... I mean... you don't have to stop."

He groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder, his breath escaping him in great, shuddering pants.

"No. We do. We need to stop." He finally managed to shift his body from hers and he collapsed onto the mattress beside her. His face was a study in misery and he studiously avoided touching her in any way. "I'm so sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean to... I know I frightened you. I don't know why I-"

She immediately rolled onto her side to face him. "Less than a month from now," she said in a voice tinged with wonder. "I'll be your wife." She curled close to him until their bodies were lightly touching and settled a hand on his hip to keep him from moving away again. "Isn't offering the comfort of our bodies to each other part of being married?" Her face flamed and she ducked her head in embarrassment at her own boldness.

He groaned, fighting temptation. "But we're not married yet and even if I don't need a formal ceremony to commit myself to you for the rest of my life, it's important to you. So it's important to me. We should wait."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"I'm sure." He smoothed her tangled hair away from her flushed cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "I'm sure that I don't want our first time to be weighed down with all this sorrow. I don't want it to be 'cause I was trying to forget or you were trying to comfort me."

"I'm so sorry." Her thumb traced a pattern over his cheekbone.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" His confusion was evident in the expression on his face and in his voice.

"That's what everyone said to me after my father died. 'I'm so sorry' they would say. I found myself thinking at times that it was an odd expression. After all, it wasn't anyone's fault that he was gone..." Tears pricked her eyes. "But I find myself wanting to say it to you and now I understand the need to say it. Because I am sorry for you... saddened for you. For your loss. I feel sorrow for the pain you're going through. I know that you have an empty spot in you for the Cheyenne that no one else can ever really fill."

With her words, something inside of Sully broke. He shuddered and burrowed his face against her stomach. She sat up and protectively curled her body over his as he poured out his grief and rage in a torrent of great, gulping sobs. She held him close, stroking his hair and rocking him in her arms. She whispered a litany of comfort into his ears, telling him that she loved him, that the children loved him, that she would take care of him. That they would make it through this and that someday things would be good again.

Long moments... or perhaps hours later, the storm of tears passed and he lay limp and exhausted in her embrace. He rolled onto his back and looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"You must be worn out." She stroked the tear-dampened hair away from his face. He nodded and with a heavy sigh, rested his weary head against her breasts.

"Go to sleep," she crooned. "I promise... no nightmares for you tonight." Eventually she felt exhaustion claim him and throughout the rest of the night, she cradled him in her arms and stood guard over his sleep.


	9. Epilogue

The next morning, after quietly shooing the children off to school and work, Michaela wearily climbed the stairs back to Sully's room. She hoped he was still sleeping. She had cancelled her appointments for the day. Perhaps, she would stretch out and take a nap herself.

She poked her head through the doorway and found him standing next to the bed, bare-chested, one hand fumbling with the fastener of his buckskins.

"Did your doctor give you permission to get out of bed?" Her tone was lightly scolding.

He gave her a tired grin. His eyes were still red-rimmed and swollen but his mood seemed somewhat lighter. Easier.

"I think I'm gettin' bedsores," he complained. "Can ya help me with this?"

She batted his hand away and quickly did up the hook at the waistband of his pants then held out his shirt and helped him slip it over his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his chest. She felt his arm curl around her and his nearness brought back memories of his heated embrace from the prior evening.

And for the first time, anticipation and excitement outweighed her nervousness at the thought of their wedding night.

She sighed contentedly and they stood a stream of morning sunlight, simply enjoying each other's company.

"Michaela?" He turned his head and pressed his lips to her hair.

"Hmm?" Her voice was soft and dreamy as she rested in his embrace.

"Do you think we could take a ride out to the new house today?"

She drew back and a slight frown marred her otherwise peaceful expression. "I don't want you working on anything yet," she cautioned. "You're not ready."

"That's not why I want to go."

"Then what?"

"I thought we could go out there, take measurements for the curtains. Maybe figure out where we want to put the furniture when it gets here next week." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "I want to spend some time in a place that doesn't hold a lot of old memories... bad memories."

He sighed. "It's time to look to the future."

Michaela looked up with a brilliant smile.

"I'd like that too." She helped him slide his arm into the sling.

He reached out with his other hand and led her toward the door.

"Then let's go."

End

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's basically the way I've been imagining how the events of Washita would have affected Sully ever since the episode first aired all those years ago. Finally, I've managed to get it down on paper and, hopefully, out of my head. I hope you enjoyed it and that it struck you as plausible. emn


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